


handwriting(s) of god

by OnyxSphinx



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Angst, F/F, Getting Together, Happy Ending, M/M, Mutual Pining, implied anyway, kind of???, past newt and past hermann get a happily ever after and so do modern newt and modern hermann, pining across timelines, somewhat epistolary as it includes bits from newt's letters in the letter era, uprising don't touch this or i'll strangle you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:14:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23623708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphinx/pseuds/OnyxSphinx
Summary: Hermann discovers, in his youth, a trunk full of sketchbooks in the attic of his family home, depicting the same man over and over again.Sixteen years later, Newton Geiszler, his penpal, with whom Hermann is slightly infatuated, sends him a photo of himself—one which looksexactlylike the man in the sketchbooks.
Relationships: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb, minor Karla Gottlieb/Vanessa Gottlieb
Comments: 7
Kudos: 53





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> "i'll focus on my prompts," i said. "i won't get sucked into aus," i said.

_...I’ve embarked upon a new endeavour: sculpting. Though not my usual medium, I have high hopes, and have the good luck to have been introduced to a young man by the name of Newton who is willing to model for me. He’s caustic, and brash, and every bit my opposite—but he is brilliant in his own right; his chosen field is that of biology, and though all of our conversations end up in arguments, I find I quite enjoy myself, and find the exercises stimulating to the mind..._

_Excerpt from the journals of Hermann Gottlieb [Vol. I]; b. 178[?], m. n/a, d. 1868_

* * *

_1998_

The floor creaks beneath his weight; the cane he’s not quite accustomed to hitting a bit louder than intended, more of a _crack_ against the old wood—oak? Cedar?—than the tap he’d intended. He freezes, listening for movement below; for a moment, hearing nothing, and then: _cre-ak-tap, cre-ak-tap_ ; the gait familiar.

“I’m going to find you!” Karla calls; voice sing-song; her weight shifting as she moves, and when Hermann closes his eyes, he can almost see her: there, moving from the kitchen onto the stairwell, ascending.

He pulls in a soft breath; quiet, quiet; forces himself to be calm as he steps, surefooted, over the boards; doing his best to avoid the places he knows will make the most noise.

Before him, the ladder rises; bolted to the wall at the top; and he presses a hand to the side, for a moment, before gripping tight and, as well as he can, pulling himself up it; one rung at a time; slow, yes, but steady; unpracticed but careful in his motions.

Finally, he reaches the highest rung he can without hitting his head on the ceiling. Carefully, he hooks the cane over the run above it so both his hands are free, and then, with as much of his strength as he can, he reaches up, pushing up against the square of wood above him.

For a moment, nothing; and then, slowly, the square shifts. Hermann gives it another shove, and then one last one, enough that the space is wide enough for him to scramble through. He takes a moment to breathe, and then lays on his stomach to reach down and grab his cane—if he leaves it, Karla will find it, and then it’ll be for nought.

That done, he rises; moves to the other side of the square and pushes it back into place.

With the entrance closed, he can’t hear Karla’s movements anymore, but that’s not much of an issue—she’s not likely to check up here, anyway. They don’t usually come into the attic—in fact, this is only Hermann’s second time in here; the first was years ago, and he can barely remember it.

With nothing better to do, he looks around; might as well investigate, given he’s likely to be up here for at least an hour or so.

It’s oddly empty—Hermann doesn’t remember, exactly, but he thinks that, last time, there were other things here; toys and such, and some boxes of ornaments his mother loved. Well—that would be why, then. Father has never been one for sentimentality.

There are some boxes still, though; and, curiosity overtaking him, Hermann opens one of them; showering himself with dust in the process, and he sneezes; once, twice, three times; rapid-fire.

He freezes for a moment; and then remembers that he can’t hear Karla, so she probably can’t hear him, and continues.

The box isn’t very deep; maybe fifteen or twenty centimetres, but it’s _heavy_ ; enough that trying to shift it makes his arm ache, and he wonders what could be in it—at first glance, nothing but some old rags, but when he takes them out, he sees why: the box is full of small, stone statues.

They look old—he’s not sure how old, but something about them makes his breath catch. They’re not terribly intricate, or anything—he’s seen granite carved to look like lace, and these are mostly small human busts, just faces and a bit of the neck and shoulders; but they seem to sing with passion—like their maker loved, truly loved, what they were doing.

There’s a few different faces, but mostly, they’re all of one man with different expressions; the messiness of his hair visible in the carefully sculpted stone.

He’s young, or at least, looks youthful; and in some, Hermann sees, as he picks them up and turns them over, he’s smiling; the corners of his eyes crinkling up. He looks...well, _nice_ isn’t the word, exactly—pretty, perhaps?

“Yes, that’s it,” he murmurs; “ _pretty_.”

He shifts the other sculptures to get enough space to fit it back into the box, and, in doing so, catches sight of the corner of a book.

He manages to pull it out after a bit; flips through the pages—mostly empty, but there, on the last few pages, are a few sketches; a few of them noticeably similar to the sculpted man. They’re all preliminary—just linework, quickly done, but one of the more complete pieces bears a signature and a date, and a small inscription.

Hermann squints at it; trying to make out what it says—some of the writing is smudged or worn away.

_H...mann ...tlieb_

_Jan. ...9, 18...3_

_...my beloved N...G..., in sl…p_

That’s it; that’s all that he can find.

His mind burns, though, with the need to _know—_ the name of the artist, he’s fairly sure, is _Hermann Gottlieb_ , a name that is the very same as his own, but the name of his subject, his _muse_ , maybe, is unknown; all he has to go by are two letters: NG.

He looks around; there are more boxes—maybe one of them will have an answer for him? Well—only one way to find out: open them.

They yield nothing but more questions; finally, he has only one large, locked trunk left. He takes a deep breath and hopes that this will tell him _something_ ; pulls his multi-tool from his pocket and inserts the flat metal piece into the lock the way Karla showed him, months ago, on a rainy day when they were stuck inside.

There’s nothing, and so he pulls back, slightly; presses up again. 

There’s a faint click. _Success_. He smiles, briefly, and goes again.

Finally, it clicks loose, and Hermann opens the lid, the rusty hinges creaking with the action. Within are stacks and stacks of books—crammed so tight that he struggles to get any out.

This one is filled to the brim with sketches, all of the same man: the one from the other sketchbook, and the one the busts depict. They’re more carefully rendered, and some of them have colour—a soft, pink tinge on tanned skin, and bright lips, and green eyes.

Something about these images enthrals him—he hasn’t a clue who _NG_ is, or why this Hermann Gottlieb sketched him so many times, but it makes something warm blossom in his chest, right beneath his ribs.

He wants to take them downstairs to his room and study them—but no. No; he _cannot_. If Father were to find them, he would throw them out without a second thought, and something about that idea makes Hermann’s breath stutter in his throat; claws of fear tightening.

No—he’ll leave them here...but he’ll come back. He’ll come back and keep looking them over, because something about them makes it feel like he’s found _home_.


	2. Chapter 2

_...our mutual acquaintance, a man by the name of Onfrio, has directed by attention towards a new studio where I can continue my work—for which I am more than grateful; the thought of not being able to continue my work on the sculpture modelled after Newton pains me, for reasons I confess I am not fully certain of... _

_ Excerpt from the journals of Hermann Gottlieb [Vol. I] _

* * *

_ 2013 _

He’s asleep when the attack starts; passed out from a long day of work, and having graded half of the papers for the class he works as a teaching assistant for in one sitting.

The pillow is soft beneath his cheek; hiding, beneath it, a sketchbook. He barely notices that, in his exhaustion, a thin line of saliva has escaped from the corner of his open mouth, too busy, instead, trying to find his phone.

It goes silent before he does, and he lets out a quiet groan. Of all things...now he’s awake, there’s no going back from that now, since it’s—he checks his watch—four in the morning. His phone rings again; this time, he manages to find it before it goes silent, but only just barely.

“Karla?”

He sounds surprised, and he knows it; they’re the closest of their siblings, but even then, Gottliebs aren’t really known for  _ talking _ to each other; at most, they see each other three times a year, and email once or twice a week, and he’s fine with that.

There’s a catch in her voice as she speaks; the sound of paper crinkling. “Hermann,” she says; and then, again: “Hermann. Brother, have you—have you seen the news?”

“What—no.” He frowns. “Should I have? It’s four in the morning.”

There’s a silence; and then another voice. “Karla,” she says, “Karla, darling, why don’t you go lie down—I’ll talk to him, okay?”

_ Vanessa _ —it takes a moment to recognise her, in his still half-asleep state, but he manages it, eventually. “Hermann,” she says, and Hermann assumes Karla must have given her the phone, “I...” she pauses. “Do you remember Karla’s ex?” she asks, eventually. 

“Er—” he wracks his mind; trying to remember an introduction, years ago, in a small cafe in Berlin. “...Suzana? The—the Australian?”

“Yes,” Vanessa says. “She—you know she and Karla were still friends, and...and she was in California for a bit, for, for...for research-related stuff, and—Hermann...” Her voice wavers. “She’s...she died. I—this morning, there was a—some sort of attack, I don’t know what, yet,  _ no one _ knows what, yet, but—Suzana’s partner made it out, and she called Karla once she was safe, and told her...and told her—”

Hermann swallows. “Oh,” he says; thickly.

He’s crying, he realises; Vanessa is, too, more loudly; and he can’t even bring himself to wipe away the tears, not now. He—Suzana was a friend of his, too; not the closest, admittedly, but closer than most, and—God. She’s dead, now.

“I...”

“Check the...check the news,” Vanessa manages. “I—I have to go, Hermann, I’m sorry, I—”

“No, I—I understand.” He closes his eyes. “Go,” he says. “Go—Karla needs you.”

There’s a moment of static, and then: “Thank you.”

The line goes silent, and Hermann presses a hand to his mouth; draws in a shaky breath. He should be—he should try and breathe evenly as he can, but he  _ cannot _ , he  _ cannot _ . He doesn’t even know what’s happened yet, and already, he cannot. He cannot.

He’ll have to look eventually; he will, but not now. Not  _ now _ .

Instead, he sets his phone down on the nightstand and clicks on the bedside lamp; pulls the sketchbook from beneath his pillow and sits on the edge of the mattress, flicking through the pages; slowly; trying to ground himself in them.

He’s seen these sketches dozens of times before; knows them as well as he knows the back of his hand, and yet, something about them never fails to help him calm his mind—the image of the unknown  _ NG _ depicted by  _ H. Gottlieb _ allowing him to lose himself in them.

After all these years, he still doesn’t know who the man is—he’s read everything he can on  _ Hermann Gottlieb _ , of course; apparently, the man was a rather famous artist and sculptor in his time, but nothing Hermann’s found about him speaks of a man who matches the description of the elusive subject of all of the sketchbooks.

Hermann’s only looked through about half of the sketchbooks—he only had so much time, and when he moved to Cambridge, he couldn’t take the entire trunk with him, so it’s possible that the others would be able to reveal something about the mystery, but he can’t exactly  _ look _ , now.

Finally, his breathing slows enough that his eyes slip shut.

When he wakes up again, he goes through his morning routine; washes his face of the dried tear tracks, and prepares breakfast, checking the news on his phone as he does so.

He nearly drops it.

_ GIANT MONSTER ATTACKS SAN FRANCISCO _

_ BBC NEWS _

He scrolls down the article; eyes jumping to the fatality count: tens of thousands already dead, with more unaccounted for and wounded, and the beast, this  _ Trespasser _ , as the media has dubbed it,  _ still _ hasn’t been stopped.

His hands shake, and he swallows; sets the phone down; stares blankly at the ceiling. The scent of eggs burning barely rouses him—he can’t think. He’s frozen. He’s—he’s—he’s—

He can’t. He can’t. He  _ cannot _ . Not—not now, not now, not—

His breath has quickened, he realises; that’s why it feels like he’s drowning, lungs filling with shards of glass. “Breathe,” he rasps, finally, pressing the heel of his palm to his sternum: “ _ Breathe! _ ”

It works; barely; but at least now he can, fingers shaking, turn off the stove before the smoke detector goes off, and collapse against the wall, and then, after a moment, down to the floor, the tile cold against his palm.

His vision swims; black spots hovering in the periphery.

He sits there for a long, long time.

When he rises, the omelette, burnt and stuck to the pan, is cold; the sun has risen past the window, and the kitchen is in shadow, now, no longer lit by its light. It’s a good thing it’s Sunday, or else, he would be late without an excuse.

Mechanically, he cleans up; tosses the ruined food away, and makes himself a cup of tea. He can’t bring himself to drink it; just lets it sit there as he sits, silently. For the first time, he wishes he had gotten a flat-mate—the silence seems almost crushing.

There’s nothing to be done, though; he must move on. He cannot, but he must.


	3. Chapter 3

_...you saw the completed work today; I was afraid that you might find it lacking, but you gazed on it with awe. “Is this how you see me?” you asked; and I told you, in truth: “That’s how you look.” _

_ “Not to most people, no,” you returned; and I, unable to help myself, burst out, “It’s hardly my fault they’re wrong.” _

_ “They’re not,” you said. “They just see someone else; someone less beautiful.” _

_ I laughed—of course I did! For, as I told you: I had not done your beauty justice—how could I ever? We are mere mortals, darling; you are far more beautiful than anything I could capture in life. _

_ You laughed at me, then; and took my hand in your own, and pressed a kiss to the inside of my wrist; and then one to my lips... _

_ Excerpt from the journals of Hermann Gottlieb [Vol. II] _

* * *

_ 2014 _

The letter from Newton Geiszler, PhD, opens like this:

_ Dude,  _

_ Alright, technically, I shouldn’t call you that since we don’t know each other (I mean I hope we will, BUT) but “Doctor Gottlieb” is too formal and “Mister Gottlieb” sounds like I’m talking to your dad, who, by the way, sounds like a dick (sorry? I mean sorry if you like him and that offends you but like. The dude seems like a dick. *insert shrugging emoticon*), so, yeah: dude. _

Hermann is horrified. Here is this man, who he doesn’t even know, writing to him as if they’re long-time friends, and insulting his father. Well—that, he can appreciate. Lars is, as Geiszler says,  _ a dick _ .

The rest of the letter is written in the same maddeningly casual style, but this man—he is smart,  _ brilliant _ , even. Hermann is... _ intrigued _ .

Naturally, he writes back.

In the third letter, Newton—he’s come to call him  _ Newton _ , now, in his mind, as silly as this seems, given he’s never  _ met _ the man—asks him about his name.

_ I was just wondering, like, if your parents named you after Hermann Gottlieb the artist, because if so, sick, dude, I love it—wait, do you even know who that is? Okay, anyway, he’s like, this famous(ish) artist who I love love love who did all of these super cool sculptures in like Romantic times (don’t @ me time is a flat circle) and like he apparently lived with a dude for three decades until they both passed away and of course everyone’s like “oh they were just good friends” BUT DUDE he was totally gay so yeah anyway my point is. Were you named after him. Because that would be funny. Since you know you’re both named Hermann Gottlieb and you’re both gay haha—ooohhh or maybe he’s your great-great-whatever uncle...just kidding but STILL I mean what are the chances that you’re gay, and named Hermann Gottlieb, and you WEREN’T named after him??  _

_ Anyway, sorry I got off track, like I was saying, the composition of the kaiju skin— _

Hermann stops. He...hadn’t considered that, actually—the possibility that this Gottlieb is related to him. Gottlieb isn’t exactly an uncommon surname, but...but those sketchbooks were in the Gottlieb residence attic, and looked to have been for who knows how long. Hermann somehow doubts that someone bought them—the way they were squirrelled away reminds him of how the heirlooms they still have were squirrelled away.

He’s going to return in a month—it wouldn’t hurt to look through the rest of books in the trunk.

He writes back; ignores that particular tangent, for the moment; addresses, instead, Newton’s musings on the composition of kaiju skin, and his theory that the kaiju may be silicon-based beings from outer space.

The letter slips easily into the envelope; and he licks the line of dried glue, grimacing at the taste, and nearly seals it before he remembers that he needs to leave Newton a forwarding address as he’ll be staying in Bavaria for a month or two; writes that, hastily, on a strip of paper, and slips it in with the letter and seals it, finally.

The stamps go on next, and then, with practised ease, he writes Newton’s name and mailing address and tucks the letter into his bag along with the other things he needs to mail.

Newton’s next letter comes the day after he gets to the house. It’s just as large as he remembers it being, years ago, and just as empty—Lars lives in the city, now, and his siblings are scattered across the world. He stays in his childhood room out of habit.

The morning Newton’s letter comes is the one that he decides to go up into the attic and have another look at the trunk.

He brings the letter up with him; sets it on the floor and opens the trunk, taking out as many of the sketchbooks as he can, and opens the first one. It is full, yet again, of sketches of  _ NG _ —though these ones are of a much domestic nature; sketches of the man from the side as he leans against a balcony rail, and of him curled up, asleep, in a chair.

Hermann wonders if Newton’s conjecture has any weight to it—after all, not many men sketch other men, especially the same one, over and over with such loving detail.

He shakes his head. Regardless, this  _ Hermann Gottlieb _ is long dead; what is or isn’t true isn’t really of much import—and, frankly, he wants to look at the letter  _ now _ ; has wanted to look at it since he picked it up out of the mailbox, but forced himself to wait.

When he opens the envelope, a letter and a photograph slip out. The photograph lands face down—on the back, the inscription reads, in messy handwriting,  _ I don’t know if you’ve ever seen me before, so, uh. This is me. Newt. _

He turns it over in his hands, breath caught in his throat, and—

Drops it.

The man grinning at him from the photo looks  _ exactly _ like the  _ NG  _ whom  _ Hermann Gottlieb _ ’s sketchbooks are chock full of.

The letter lays, forgotten, as he flips through the sketchbooks; almost fast enough to tear the pages, at times; and stops on the fourth one—not a notebook, but a  _ journal _ ; written in outdated German, but he can read it passably enough.

_...my darling, you asked me today what would happen to us after we died, and I confess to not knowing; and I told you as much; and you smiled at me and said, “I will be a footnote in the history of a great artist—a footnote in your history,” and when I tried to protest it—darling, you are a brilliant naturalist; no one could forget the advances you made in your field—you merely said “It’s alright, Hermann, it doesn’t matter whether or not anyone remembers me, because I love you and I know you will remember me,” and then you pressed your lips to mine, in a tactic I know full well is intended to silence me; but Newton, I must confess: I cannot complain, for every day and with every word that passes your lips, I find myself more and more taken with you... _

Hermann swallows thickly. This is—this is—

His mind is blank. He cannot—this—he scrambles; searching, wildly, for anything; a portrait, a self-portrait; a black and white and faded  _ photo _ . 

He finds only one; smudged like someone was trying to erase it, the lines quick and angry, but he can make out the facial structure, and it looks, though perhaps not to anyone else,  _ frighteningly _ similar to his own.

“I’m seeing things,” he whispers, setting it down; as gently as he can; “I—I  _ must _ be. That’s the only explanation, that’s—” 

Words fail him for the first time he can remember; in a world where giant beings that are possibly  _ alien _ in nature are attacking the planet, what’s to say that  _ other _ things aren’t possible?

He stares, blankly, at the sketchbook in his hands, and, suddenly, laughs; wild and half-hysterical. As Newton would say, this situation is  _ a bit batshit _ ; and the thought of the man sends him into further paroxysms.

Within minutes, he’s half-howling; clutching his sides; sketchbooks scattered around him. It’s not funny, it’s not, not in the slightest, but it’s  _ hysterical _ . 

Of all people, of course it would be  _ Newton damn Geiszler _ —of course the man who he is  _ intrigued  _ by and the man he’s been  _ infatuated  _ with for years look  _ exactly the same _ , maybe even  _ are exactly the same _ , because  _ maybe _ , maybe,  _ maybe _ Hermann Gottlieb from two hundred years ago and Hermann Gottlieb standing here, right now,  _ are the exact same damn person _ .

That’s. That’s fine. That’s  _ fine _ .

(He might be having a bit of a crisis.)

He leaves the letter on the floor and goes downstairs and makes himself a strong cup of tea.

The next day, he goes through the family photos; there’s plenty of them, thankfully, and a good number of them are kept in the house. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for (he knows exactly what he’s looking for), so he just brings them all into the living room and sets them on the table; hooks his cane over the back of the chair next to him and sits down.

Unfortunately,  _ Hermann _ is a family name—in fact, he has a great uncle, photographed at age twenty-two, named  _ Hermann Gottlieb _ who looks  _ exactly  _ like him. 

Whatever shred of reason he’s been clinging to since the night before begins to slips away, and he pinches the bridge of his nose; pulls out his phone and dials Karla. “Do you have any idea what happened to Hermann Gottlieb, our great uncle, born approximately...1910?”

“Hello to you as well, brother,” Karla says; drily. “Why the sudden interest in our family history?”

_ Because I’m currently losing my damn mind over a series of events that cannot possibly be coincidences _ . He bites his tongue; says, instead: “I found some photos in the attic.”

Karla hums; obviously not believing him, but answers. “I don’t know; he died before I was born—in the late ‘60s, I think. Father used to complain about him when Oma wasn’t around—she was his sister. I believe...” she goes silent for a moment; and then: “He never married, if I remember correctly—lived the last forty years of his life with his friend, a man—”

“By the name of  _ Newton? _ ” Hermann asks; trying not to sound too strained; and Karla gives a startled laugh.

“How’d you know?”

His mouth is dry. “Lucky guess, I suppose,” he croaks. “Thank you for indulging me, Karla.”

“Anytime. Really—you should call more, I hardly ever hear from you.”

Hermann gives a soft huff. This is something that’s changed since K-Day—they’ve become closer. “I will,” he says, “I was going to video-call you next Saturday, actually, if you’re free?”

“Sounds great,” Karla says, “it’ll be great to see your face, Hermann—I’ve missed you. Vanessa has, as well, though she’d never admit it.”

Hermann smiles. “I miss you, too,” he says. 

After Karla hangs up, he stares, for a long, long time at the photo of Hermann Gottlieb. Finally, he shakes himself; gathers the photos back up and puts them back into their boxes and tries to put them out of his mind—predictably unsuccessfully, but as Newton loves to tell him—

No; he’s not going to think of  _ Newton _ , of any of them, not  _ now _ . He can’t. He can’t.

He puts the boxes back when he got them from and gets started on dinner, trying not to imagine Newton standing by his side; his smile quick and bright. It’s not the first time he’s imagined it, but with this, it’s nearly unbearable, and he has to scrub tears away from his eyes more than once; throat thick with emotion and something else, something he can’t name, doesn’t  _ want _ to name, fears naming.

How many times has this happened? How many times will it  _ keep _ happening—assuming any of this, this  _ conjecture _ is real and not just a series of highly unlikely coincidences?

He doesn’t know. He doesn’t  _ know _ . His entire practice is based on  _ knowing _ things, knowing  _ truths _ , and he doesn’t know  _ this _ . He doesn’t know if he ever  _ can _ know it, and that scares him, just a bit.


	4. Chapter 4

_...I did not intend it; you see; to fall for you like this, so that when I look at you, I think:  _ oh; I am blessed by God himself _ ; but that is what has happened, darling... _

_ Excerpt from the journals of Hermann Gottlieb [Vol. III] _

* * *

_ 2015 _

The next year, Hermann joins the Jaeger program in an official capacity. He’s been doing some coding for them as a favour to a friend, but one of the higher-ups takes notice of him, and he’s asked to come on and work on the Mark I coding in full.

He informs Newton of his change of address in his letter before he relocates to the Lima Shatterdome, and then packs his bags and leaves for the airport to catch his flight after he drops off the envelope at the post office.

Newton’s letter is thicker than usual when it arrives three weeks later, and Hermann has to stifle a laugh at that; Newton’s verbose at the best of times, but not usually to this degree. When he opens it, his suspicions are confirmed; Newton’s stuffed in as many pieces of paper as he can fit. A good half of them are interrogating Hermann as to the workings of the Shatterdome—he’s received an offer to join as well—, and the other half are a mix of tangents and scientific ramblings and personal anecdotes in a style Hermann’s grown used to.

Hermann smiles at it, slightly, and sets it aside, starting the first draft of his reply.

Over the course of the next year, he completes the Mark I coding, and starts on the Mark II coding. Newton joins on, though he’s sent to Tokyo, assigned to the xenobiology division of the Tokyo Kaiju Sciences department. Hermann can’t say he’s terribly surprised—Newton’s enthusiasm for the kaiju is quite large.

Their letters become more sporadic as their workload increases, but they also become longer; though the wait between them may be three months, the letters consistently contain a number of sheets in the double digits.

It’s towards the end of the year that Newton proposes they meet in person at one of the conferences. Hermann, despite his reservations, agrees.


	5. Chapter 5

_...even when I am angered by your actions, I cannot hate you; Newton, I cannot; I do not think I have it in me to loathe you—you may be a thousand miles away and never wish to see me again, but I would not be able to hate you... _

_ Excerpt from the journals of Hermann Gottlieb [Vol. IV] _

* * *

_ 2020 _

“Oh, you’ve got to be  _ fucking _ me,” Newton screeches, the instant Hermann comes into his line of sight. “Marshal, dude, my man, you _ cannot  _ make me work with Hermann  _ fucking _ Gottlieb.”

Hermann scowls at him. “Good to see you’ve not changed one  _ whit _ ,” he sneers; eying the tattoos snaking up Newton’s arms, visible because he’s rolled his sleeves up, with what he hopes comes across as an appropriate amount of disdain.

“Gentlemen,” the Marshal warns, “you both know how important your work is—get  _ along _ . That is an  _ order _ , Doctor Geiszler.”

Newton purses his lips. “Fine,” he nearly spits; glaring at Hermann. “But this is  _ my  _ side of the lab, got it, Brainiac?”

“That is  _ more _ than agreeable,” Hermann retorts, gripping the head of his cane tightly. “Just keep your  _ disgusting _ kaiju entrails on your own side.”

The other lets out an inarticulate noise; waves his scalpel wildly. “You don’t fucking  _ deserve _ to be around them,” he hisses.

It’s fine. The world is ending, has ended, already, for Hermann, in a way, but they’re all still alive, so when Newton spills a giant beaker of (neutralised, thank  _ God _ ) kaiju blood on himself two weeks later, Hermann just screams at him for his incompetence rather than crying.

In the evenings, he eats in his room. Something about eating in the mess hall seems too exposed; too vulnerable, and anyway, it’s too loud. His room, though spartan, affords privacy and silence.

“So you  _ haven’t _ done any socialising?” Vanessa guesses.

Hermann scowls at her. “I  _ talk _ to people,” he says, indignantly; feeling like a child scolded by a parent. “I  _ know _ people. I...would even call some of them  _ close  _ acquaintances. Tendo Choi, for example—our LOCCENT head—”

“But do you talk to him about  _ work _ , or about  _ you? _ ” she asks, patiently. Hermann’s jaw snaps shut. She sighs. “That’s what I thought,” she says. “Hermann, as your friend, and as your sister-in-law, I’m telling you: you  _ need _ friends there. I know you like to pretend you don’t need any sort of social connections, but we  _ both _ know that’s not true.”

There’s a silence, and then Hermann says, “You said Karla popped down to the bakery—shouldn’t she be back by now?”

“Don’t change the subject, Hermann.” Vanessa’s frown is clearly visible even though the quality of the call isn’t the best. “Why don’t you go talk to your colleagues?”

“Colleague,” Hermann corrects. “We...we don’t get along, Newton and I—”

“ _ Newton? _ ” Vanessa hisses, “you mean to tell me you’re working with  _ Newton Geiszler who you’ve had a crush on for literal years _ and you haven’t  _ jumped his bones? _ ”

“Vanessa!”

“What?!”

“I would never—that’s not—” he sputters ineffectually for a few moments; fuming, but unable to respond properly. Vanessa watches on in what Hermann is fairly certain is smug amusement. He drags a hand through his hair. “We don’t like each other,” he says, shortly..

Vanessa raises a brow. “I’m pretty sure you  _ do _ like him,” she says. “If you hated him, you wouldn’t get so defensive—and you wouldn’t gaze off into the distance like you’re daydreaming when you say his name.”

“I don’t—I do  _ not! _ ”

“You kinda do, sorry,” Vanessa says; extremely unapologetically. “But fine—if you don’t want to talk to Newt, whatever, but at least make  _ some _ friends, okay, Hermann? I...I  _ worry _ about you, okay?”

“Sorry,” Hermann murmurs. “I...I’ll  _ try _ .”

“Good.”

After she hangs up, Hermann sighs. She’s right, of course she is; she knows Hermann too well  _ not _ to be. He doesn’t hate Newton, nor really dislike him, though he sometimes wishes he did, because that would make things far, far easier. 

If only when they had begun arguing three years ago, and then wound up shouting at each other in public, the pain and hurt and burn of anger Hermann had felt at Newton tearing him to pieces had  _ lasted _ —but no; instead, it faded within the day, leaving him feeling awful and empty.

He drags a hand through his hair again; pushes aside his food, no longer hungry, and goes, instead, to the dresser—the only other significant piece of furniture in the room besides the bed—and pulls the top drawer open.

Gently, he picks an unassuming brown notebook up and closes the drawer with his shoulder, returning to his bed, and cracks it open at random.

It’s one of the earlier entries, and Hermann smiles wistfully, letting his eyes run over the text until they slip shut and he falls into a silent, dark sleep.

* * *

“—kaiju signature rising, sir—!”

“Yancy, Raleigh, the kaiju is still there—”

Hermann watches, unable to look away; his gaze glued to the stream of data on Tendo’s screen; hears Yancy Beckett scream, for a moment, before the audio cuts out, the tech crushed by Knifehead’s jaw; and then, a moment later, Yancy’s vitals blink out.

“Raleigh? Raleigh!”

“Oh my god,” says Newton, by his side; stilling; the words soft and, Hermann thinks,  _ pained _ . “They—” he goes silent. LOCCENT is in chaos—they’ve lost pilots before, but never  _ their _ pilots; never like  _ this _ .

Hermann turns away; swallows, thickly. “Send me the data when you can,” he murmurs, uncertain if Tendo hears him. He can barely hear  _ himself _ anymore, as he weaves his way through the people around him and makes for the lab.

He’s halfway down the hall when someone shouts his name. Newton; he stills, for a moment, and then quickens his pace. He’s the last person Hermann wants to talk to, right now. 

“Hey, asshole!” Newton calls, “dude, slow down, fuck’s sake, I can’t keep—hh— _ running _ after you—” He comes to a halt by Hermann’s side; panting, slightly; and Hermann catches a glimpse of his face, flushed, for a moment, before he returns his gaze to the hall ahead of him. 

Newton’s obviously waiting for him to speak. Hermann’s not about to.

“Fine, don’t, then,” Newton huffs, after a few moments. “Look, I just—I wanted to make sure you’re okay, alright?”

“I’m  _ fine _ ,” Hermann snaps. “I don’t need you hanging over my shoulder and pretending to care—I have work to get back to,  _ Doctor Geiszler _ .”

The other quickens his step so he’s in front of Hermann, stumbling slightly as he walks backwards to try and stay in front and facing him. “Newt,” he reminds him, “look, dude, we both know you’re only being extra snappy at me because you’re upset, which, like, I  _ get _ it, okay—”

“No.”

“No—”

Hermann grits his teeth. “ _ No _ , it’s not okay.  _ No, _ you don’t ‘get it’.  _ No _ , Newton;  _ no _ .”

“Hey, I’m supposed to tell them where to hit the kaiju, and what their weaknesses and defences are—I  _ do _ get it, okay, man? You’re blaming yourself,  _ again _ , I  _ know _ you—”

“Do not  _ speak _ of  _ knowing _ me,” Hermann hisses, and shoves past him; no longer interested in getting to the lab—he just wants to get away from  _ Newton _ ; Newton with his faux sympathy, his wide eyes, his—his—

A hysterical cry bubbles within him, and he swallows it back, but only barely.

Newton’s managed to catch up to him again; this time, Hermann can’t bring himself to react; not even when Newton places a hand on his shoulder; far more gently than he should, far more gently than he as any  _ damn _ right to; murmurs, quiet: “Let’s get you to your room, ‘kay?”

He herds Hermann down the hallway to his quarters; speaking softly as he takes the key from Hermann’s jacket pocket and unlocks the door; presses a hand between Hermann’s shoulders, gentle, directing him inside.

“Why are you  _ doing _ this?” Hermann croaks. 

Newton’s expression is gentle. “Because you deserve better than beating yourself up over something you can’t control.”

The Jaegers, he means; the kaiju. The attacks, the deaths. Hermann lets out a dry, pained laugh, the sound escaping involuntarily. “I could always have done better—”

“Don’t.” 

The word is sharp; and it startles Hermann after how quietly and gently Newton’s been speaking to him. “Don’t,” he says, again. “Look, it doesn’t  _ matter _ if you  _ could _ have. What’s done is done, Hermann. That—you can’t change that. You just gotta keep going.”

“Easy enough for  _ you _ to say,” Hermann snaps. “You’re not the one who has to account for the fatalities in your predictive models—I have to put a  _ margin of acceptable error _ into my reports, Newton, do you understand? I have to decide how many peoples’ deaths are  _ acceptable _ .”

There’s a silence. Neither of them seem to even be breathing. Finally, Newton sighs. “You should sleep,” he says, “we’ve got a long day of work ahead of us.”

“Yes, we...we do.” Hermann swallows thickly; sits down on his bed. Normally, he’d hate this; showing vulnerability; but right now, he can’t bring himself to care; not about this, not about  _ Newton _ seeing this.

“Do you want me to—?” Newton cuts himself off. “Nevermind. It’s stupid.”

“Everything you say is,” Hermann says; not really  _ meaning  _ it; glad, when the words make Newton crack a smile.

“More stupid than usual,” he amends. “I, uh. I was going to ask if...if you wanted me to stay? Just, just for a bit, I mean, I know that we don’t like each other, but having someone around can help you to sleep, and I know you haven’t gotten a lot of rest, so...”

“You can.”

He surprises even himself with his answer; and they stare at each other, silently, for a moment, before Newton says, “Uh—okay, um, do you have an extra pillow? I’ll take the floor.”

They get settled quickly enough; Hermann considers, for a moment, protesting Newton staying on the floor, and then remembers the alternative is inviting him to share his bed, and discards that line of thought.

“Hey, Hermann?”

Hermann leans over the side of the bed; takes in the sight of Newton, propped up on his side; hair in disarray, as ever; and is reminded, suddenly, of one of the sketches in the sketchbooks; blushes at the thought. “Yes?” he asks, hoping that his voice doesn’t waver the way he fears it will.

“You’re doing your best, okay? Remember that.”

Hermann doesn’t reply; can’t,  _ can’t _ , so he just lays back and tries to fall asleep.


	6. Chapter 6

_...and you apologised just as I did; for we had both hurt each other; and that, I think, is the truth of it, darling; and the beauty of it, too; for even now, after so many years, we still chose each other—never forgetting, no, but working to make forgiveness something we deserve... _

_ Excerpt from the journals of Hermann Gottlieb [Vol. IV] _

* * *

_ 2025 _

“Newton, don’t be  _ ridiculous _ ,” Hermann snaps, “you can’t very well  _ go running off _ to chase after—”

The glass Newton’s holding finally slips from his grasp; he’s been jittering since Hermann managed to get him up off the ground and onto the chair, but his hands are shaking worse, now, than they were then.  _ Fear _ , Hermann registers, vaguely.

“Don’t,” Newton says, “look, dude, I, I have to, have to do this, okay, dude, I have, I  _ have _ to!”

His eyes are wild; his glasses cracked; his left iris rimmed red; and Hermann, in this moment, just wants to take him by the shoulders and shake him; tell him  _ do not do this, it’s not worth your  _ life.

Instead, he bites the inside of his cheek; takes a step back. “Fine,” he says; trying to put as much bite into it as he can; because he  _ cannot _ say what he wants to, not now; not to  _ Newton _ , not  _ now _ : “you always  _ did _ believe you knew the best.”

Newton scowls at him. “I’m gonna be a fucking rockstar,” he says, and tries to rise; fails the first time and hisses “ _ Fuck _ ,” and glares at Hermann as if this is  _ his _ fault. The second time, he succeeds, storming off.

Hermann’s left alone, the shattered glass still on the floor.

He inhales deeply. It should be grounding, really, but instead, it just throws him further off balance. He can’t stop thinking about Newton, can’t stop  _ worrying  _ about him; out there, possibly injured by the solo Drift in other ways besides the ones Hermann observed, and on his way to try and strike a deal with  _ Hannibal Chau _ .

He should have offered to go with Newton, he realises—but would the other even accept? 

Hermann has no way of knowing, and, anyway, he can’t rewind time. 

Trying to banish the worry to the back of his mind, Hermann looks around for the broom and dust-pan; manages to sweep the shards of glass into a pile, but when he tries to kneel to sweep them up, pain jolts, sharp, up his leg and hip, and he grimaces. It’ll have to stay like that for now, then.

His phone vibrates, breaking him out of his thoughts, and he shakes his head to try and rid himself of them further. It’s probably Tendo, telling him to get down LOCCENT—

_ n.geiszler _

_ [image attachment] _

He opens it up; finds a blurry shot of cabinets of specimen tanks, all full of kaiju parts. 

_ almost got knifed by chau but totally worth it _

Anger rises in him; sharp and biting. Newton was in  _ danger _ , and all he could think about was his  _ damn _ kaiju. Hermann turns the phone off; pressing the power button harder than probably really necessary, and shoves it back into his pocket and makes his way to LOCCENT.

Tendo greets him with a nod; he’s busy trying to run various systems. Hermann eyes some of the data they have on the Breach activity—it’s shifting; getting ready to open and let through more kaiju. 

“Gottlieb!”

Hermann turns to the Marshal. “Yes, sir?”

“I want you up on the observation deck,” the Marshal orders. “Bring your binoculars—I want you to be taking notes on the kaiju once we can see them.”

“But sir, I’m not—”

“Geiszler isn’t here,” Pentecost cuts him off. “And you’ve worked with him for five years—it’s better to have a smaller amount of data because you’re not specialised rather than no data at all.”

“Alright,” Hermann says; after a beat. “I’ll do my best, sir.”

It’s pouring outside, he’s pretty certain; so he doubles back to his quarters, first, to grab his parka. It’s hung up on the hook by the bed, and, as he pulls it on, he catches sight of one of the journals.

Will this be the last of them? If the kaiju succeed, and they die, will the last time he sees Newton be bloodied and angry, storming away from him?

He doesn’t know.

(He fears it might.)

The rain dies down a bit in the hour or so he spends on the observation deck. Lady Danger’s return, and her crash into the ground, leave them scrambling for a bit; but, finally, someone spots both Beckett and Mako alive and well.

“Sir, may I—”

He doesn’t have to finish his sentence; Pentecost is nodding already. “Go to Geiszler,” he says.

Hermann snaps off a salute. “Sir, yes, sir!” he cries, and hurries towards where some of the shatterdome staff are getting Newton’s Drift machine into one of the helicopters. A few of them give him odd looks, but Hermann ignores them.

They touch down what seems like years later; and Hermann is  _ exhausted _ , but he has only one thing in mind:  _ find Newton _ .

He does. It’s not hard—the other is running around, yelling at the techs and workers already on the scene.  _ He’s always been loud _ , Hermann thinks; almost fondly; and hurries over to his side.

He checks his pad one last time as Newton gets the Drift interface up and running. “That’s odd,” he murmurs; mostly to himself; frowning. “There’s two signatures—there should be three—”

“Oh, two instead of three, hurts to be wrong, doesn’t it,” Newton snaps.

It’s a fair comeback for earlier, but Hermann can’t stand it; not now, not after Newton’s already been in peril at least  _ twice _ . “I’m  _ not _ wrong,” he hisses, “my calculations are right, it’s something else—”

“Look, just shut up and let me get on with it, okay?” Newton shoves the cable into the back of the Pons unit. 

Right. Newton’s going to Drift again.

“You can’t,” Hermann says; without even thinking about it. “Not alone, anyway—I’ll go with you. Share the neural load, like the Jaeger pilots do.”

Newton turns on his heel; gapes at Hermann. “You’d—you’d do that for me? Or, or with me, I mean?”

“Well, with the world at stake, how could I possibly refuse?”

It’s meant to be a light retort; meant to make Newton laugh, and it does succeed in that, but it’s got a deeper truth to it; because Hermann, in that moment, voices something that he’s only just become aware of: that Newton, in so many ways, is  _ his _ world. He doesn’t know how it happened, or when; but it’s true, now.

Newton grins at him; clasps his hand, and passes him the spare Pons headset.

* * *

“So, uh, do you want to talk about it?”

By  _ it _ , Newton means the  _ Drift _ ; means the flashes of what they’ve seen in each others’ heads, and the memories that they can see, now, at any moment, as if they’re their own. He opens his mouth to answer and tastes copper; scowls; digs through his pockets for a handkerchief. 

He threw away the one Newton gave him earlier as soon as the final battle was over, but thankfully, he manages to find another one; presses it to his nose and tips his head forward. “Not particularly,” he says, after a few beats; the words a bit muffled.

Newton lets out an unimpressed hum. “Alright,” he says; “then I guess you won’t mind if I go look through those journals and sketchbooks of yours.”

“ _ Don’t, _ ” Hermann snaps; and then: “they’re not  _ mine _ .” 

“You sound  _ embarrassed _ , you know?” Newton asks; conversational; thankfully, not moving from where he’s sitting at Hermann’s side on the bed. “I mean, you’ve got the sketchbooks and journals of a semi-famous artist, and you’re  _ embarrassed _ about it.”

“It’s a bit  _ creepy _ , though, isn’t it?” Hermann mutters. “I mean—he has the same name as I do, and loved a man who looked just like you and had the same name as well. And that’s not the half of it, either—I looked through my family tree; every hundred years or so there’s a  _ Hermann Gottlieb _ who spends a good two or three decades living, unmarried, with a, a, a man named  _ Newton _ —”

He stops; presses the handkerchief a bit harder; the fingers of his other hand curling tight, the nails, though short, biting into his skin, but he appreciates the sting. 

Newton’s hand pressed against his back; careful; rubs comforting circles. “It’s not creepy,” he says. “It’s weird, sure, but, like—destiny, man.”

Hermann lets out a half-strangled laugh. “ _ Destiny _ ,” he repeats.

He can’t see it, but he can practically feel Newton smiling. “Destiny,” he repeats. “Math isn’t the only  _ handwriting of god _ , Hermann—sometimes art is.”

“You hate that phrase,” Hermann says; but without any bite; and Newton hums; raises a hand to card through his hair; and Hermann closes his eyes with a soft sight; leans into the touch.

“It’s got a sort of charm to it,” Newton murmurs; and he moves closer to Hermann. Apropos nothing, he adds, “You know, I used to daydream about being in your bed.”

Hermann sputters; pulls the handkerchief away and turns to look at Newton. “ _ What? _ ”

Newton laughs. “I was super into you,” he says. “I’m surprised you didn’t know. Well— _ am _ super into you, I mean. Uh, it didn’t really... _ stop _ . I mean, it kind of did for a bit, since you were  _ kind of _ a dick after we met, but...you’ve been, like, decent since we started working here. Well, kind of decent, anyway.”

“Stunning review,” Hermann says; drily; mostly out of reflex. “I’ve never felt so complimented in my life.”

“Shut up,” Newton grumbles, “I’m trying to, like, have a  _ moment _ here.”

“...oh,” Hermann says; and blushes, a bit; ducks his head. “I haven’t...I don’t really, er, I don’t have much experience with any of this...”

“Talking about emotions?”

“No—yes—no! I mean, I don’t—”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Newton reassures; and moves the hand on Hermann’s back so that he’s embracing him, one-armed, instead. “I was joking, okay? Don’t worry, man.”

“I just—I don’t want it to  _ just _ be destiny,” Hermann mutters; feeling foolish even as he says it. “I don’t—”

“It won’t,” Newton assures; holding him tight. “It’s choice, man. We get to choose if we want to or not—the other Hermanns and Newts did as well, and I’m sure some of them chose not to. It’s not set in stone, or anything, but I...I want to choose to. If, if you want, I mean.”

Hermann stays silent; listening to the other’s even breaths; taking in the press of his arm against his torso, and the gentle motion of Newton’s hand through his hair; the two of them, here, still alive, after it all; the slightly metallic scent that lingers, and the faint buzz of the ghost Drift between them, even now, hours later.

He folds the handkerchief; first in half, then in half again; and then unfolds it and repeats the motion; once, twice; three times. Finally, he sets it down; raises one hand to curl around Newton’s where it presses into his side, gentle and grounding; rubs his thumb over the other’s knuckles, almost reverently—no; he ought not hide, not anymore; neither of them deserves that. He pulls Newton’s hand away, just slightly; just enough to slip his fingers between the other’s.

“You good?” Newton asks; quiet. “You, um, you haven’t said anything, so I wanted to...to check.”

Hermann lets out a soft, hesitant breath. “Yes,” he decides. “Yes, I’m...I’m alright. Thank you, Newton. I’m...more than alright, actually.”

There’s a warmth growing beneath his ribcage; creeping, gentle, up towards his heart. He’s smiling, he realises; and he turns; presses his face into Newton’s shoulder; finds himself laughing, softly. When he pulls back, Newton’s smiling as well. “I’d like to make that choice as well,” he says; and Newton’s smile turns into a grin; the corners of his eyes crinkling, and he kisses Hermann; once, softly.

“Okay,” he says; “okay.”

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me at [autisticharrow](https://autisticharrow.tumblr.com/) on tumblr


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